


in cages and boxes

by unspecified (modernscience)



Series: Meandering through (until I find you) [6]
Category: Fashion Model RPF, Karlie Kloss - Fandom, Kaylor - Fandom, Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 03:12:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6313153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modernscience/pseuds/unspecified
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>love’s a fragile little flame, it could burn out</em><br/> <br/>***</p><p>(500) Days of Summer AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey, Swizzle.”

 

“Where are you? I’m on platform three, train’s leaving soon.”

 

“I’m not going.”

 

He sounds so nonchalant that you wish your arm could reach into the phone to give him a proper slap. “What the _fuck_ , Austin?”

 

“I told Millie I couldn’t make it. Have you tried Verve? They make some good coffee.”

 

Your curses flows seamlessly from your mouth to your little brother who’s snickering in the background, no doubt satisfied with his latest accomplishment. He even cheerfully chimes for you to “have fun” before hanging up, the fucking nerve. You could really, really punch him right now.

 

To be honest, you don't really know Millie all that well. Two years of working at the office, you can count in one hand the number of times you've talked with her, random "hi"s and various small talks to fill up the dead air in the elevator. Your jerk of a brother is the social butterfly at the office so it doesn’t really surprise you when he got invited. What did surprise you was when you spot another beige envelope resting on your keyboard. You told him you’re not going but he pestered you throughout the company’s Karaoke Night, promising you’ll have “so much fun and get properly wasted.” That sounded enticing, so you surrender. You never thought you would be abandoned to attend this thing alone.

 

 _Dick_.

 

You spot a space on the left, completely empty, and you hastily make your way to claim the area. At least it won't be an awkward ride spent with involuntarily eavesdropping on people's conversations. It takes great strength and effort, but you finally manage to swing your luggage to the overhead compartment and tucks it in the corner against the structure. Your arms feel like it had just gone through a deadlift set at the gym.

 

"Taylor?"

 

Her voice turns your whole body rigid and you can’t help but cringe at the sound of your name coming from her mouth; so familiar yet foreign at the same time. The last time she said it out loud, it was a snarl loaded with exasperation that tasted like poison, and you remember it like it was yesterday. There was no hint of any of that now, only bewilderment about the fact that somehow you're also here. It's a struggle to keep control of your body, to remain in your position instead of breaking down and crying, to breathe normally — in and out and in and out, you keep telling yourself. Your mind tells you to run but you turn to look at her and somehow, you manage a smile.

 

"Hey."

 

"Are you... Where are you going?"

 

"To Millie's wedding."

 

"You're kidding me." She takes the empty seat right across from you, and _fuck shit fuck fuck fuck what are you doing what_ ** _the fuck_** _are you doing_

 

"Afraid not. I can show you the invitation if you need proof."

 

She laughs, and it takes you back to that day in Nashville when she sees Kitty sat on you and wouldn't get off, her laugh filled the entire room as you struggled for air. You curse at yourself for remembering.

 

"Are you going to, uh..."

 

"Yeah."

 

"How did you know Millie?"

 

_What a stupid motherfucking question._

 

”I used to… work with her?"

 

"Right. See, I knew that, I don't know why that came out of my mouth."

 

She lets out a soft chuckle this time; shaking her head like she does every time she finds something you say either silly or mildly amusing. This all feels too familiar and it burns your chest. A part of you melts at the sight of her all over again, something you swore you wouldn't do.

 

Her attention is now on the moving stills outside the window. You fiddle with the tangled cable of your headphones,your thumb on your right hand mindlessly scrolling past your Instagram feed. It reminds you of the silence you used to share with her — comfortable, content, easy. Sunday mornings with your leg dangling lazily from the edge of the bed as she wraps one arm around you, holding you close while totally engrossed in whatever book she’s reading. In the living room — you trying to find inspiration for your next song while she’s sitting cross-legged on the sofa, eyes fixated on her laptop as she tweaks with programming codes that seems completely unfamiliar to you it might as well be from another planet. It’s in the kitchen as you split duties — she makes dinner and you set the table. Those late night drives along Mulholland Drive that would end with both of you sprawled on the hood of the car, intertwined limbs and soft circles on the space between thumbs and forefingers, the twinkling city lights largely ignored. There was never a need for excessive words. How ironic, considering you both work for a greeting card company. It was meant to be. Or so you thought.

 

"I think I'm gonna grab some coffee,” Her tone is one of invitation and there was a part of you that almost stands up instinctively, but you grip the edge of the cushion seat, putting out the roaring flame of assumption that bubbles up in your chest and smile at her to say _go ahead_. Her green eyes doesn't leave you as she returns your smile, unflinching and waiting. You finally give in.

 

"Yeah, let's have coffee."

 

* * *

 

You hate this.

 

You hate how you still can recall every little thing about her  — the way she looks with the sun shining behind her, her pretend dislike of the nickname “giraffe” you gave her, how many times she would stir her coffee all the way around before drinking it (five). It’s not like you’ve forgotten them, but these last few months you can finally feel bits and pieces of her dissipating into a fading memory. It’s a hard-earned victory and you’re so fucking proud of yourself for making that step to move on, however insignificant it may seem.

 

One meeting, and you’re back to square one.

You hate the power that she has over you. Or, rather, the power that you let her have over you. When does _that_ go away?

 

Your phone vibrates with a text from Austin, and even though your irritation with him is lingering still, you’re secretly grateful for the distraction.

 

 

**_SHE’S HERE_ **

 

_who_

 

**_WHO THE FUCK YOU DO THINK?_ **

 

_oh shit_

 

_be sensible. remember to chill_

 

**_BITCH I AM CHILL ALL THE TIME_ **

 

_if you say so_

 

 

When you look up from your phone, she’s walking towards you and gives you a small wave — a vision in short lace dress that makes your breath hitches in your throat.

 

You blame it on the wedding atmosphere for stealing a glance at her every now and again. The bridge and groom exchange kisses, and she returns your look with a smile in her eyes.

 

“Penis,” she leans in and whispers, deliberately still loud enough for people around your seat to hear. Your laugh comes out as a snort of sorts and your hand quickly flew to cover your mouth, the rest of your body shaking as your try desperately to hold it in. You see a grin plastered wide across her face, undoubtedly feeling very pleased with herself.

 

It’s foolish, you know that, but you picture both of you standing under the arch and think maybe.  _Maybe one day._

You hate how easy it is to fall in love with her again.

 

* * *

 

Reception is in full swing and everybody seems to pile up on the dance floor, moving rhythmically along with the upbeat music. You take in the scene, happily content to watch and be an observer and not nearly intoxicated enough to join in with the crowd. The air feels warm and sticky against your skin, your dress clinging in unnecessary places you didn’t even know existed, and the heels of your feet could just fall off at any second.

 

“Champagne?”

 

She towers over your seat, a glass in each hand filled with bubbly liquid. Your thanks was almost immediately followed by her pet name out of habit. You caught it just it time — thank fuck — stopping at the first letter. She gives you a quizzical look, not unkind. You down your Cliquot in one gulp and swallow your pride, mentally banging your head against a concrete wall.

 

Her knee brushes against yours under the table and it reminds you of the first time she took you to brunch with her friends from college. You’ve been going out for twelve weeks and you made a quip about how nervous you actually are, “because this is like meeting the family.” She kissed your cheek and told you it’d be fine, “they’re gonna love you.” In hindsight, perhaps you should’ve seen it as a warning sign when she introduced you only as “Taylor”, but she keeps resting her hand on that very spot on your thigh and laughs twice as hard at your jokes, and anyway you were “going slow” and “keeping it casual” so who would’ve thought? Isn’t this what casual people do? You rationalized it over and over again on the way home, trying to make sense of it all. By the time she hungrily kissed you in front of your apartment, you’ve forgotten all about it.

 

* * *

 

 

“Karlie, what are you doing?”

 

She slightly pulls away from you and gives you that puzzled look again, both of you still swaying in sync along with the singer’s rendition of At Last. “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean…” This whole thing, from the moment she spotted you on the train to the moment when she asked you to dance after your third glass of champagne and you were powerless to say no. “You know what I mean” is all you manage to say.

 

“No, Tay, I really don’t.”

 

It’s exhausting, this constant need to know where you both stand. You've been doing it ever since she kissed you in the copy room and now that you think about it, it doesn't seem like you've ever put it away. Now it washes over you again, and it's like meeting an old ghost that used to haunt you. There’s a small part of you that thinks she’s playing games and leading you on. A larger part of you hopes that’s not the case. You carefully construct the words in your mind, tip-toeing around the edges and trying to make it sound sensible and coherent instead of it ending up as a long irrelevant ramble, but by the time you open your mouth to explain, the singer’s smooth croon is now finished and everybody’s clapping, so both of you join in and show your appreciation. Whatever moment it was that you thought you had is long gone by now.

 

“Hey, I was thinking…”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’m having a party next weekend. Just a little get together with some friends, you know…”

 

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her other hand chipping away the nail on her thumb with her index finger. You know her enough to sense her nervousness, so you wait.

 

“I was wondering if you’d like to come along? We’re gonna have it on the rooftop, some drinks and sandwiches and all that.”

 

“That's a little too high brow for me.”

 

She laughs, and you’re soaring. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

 

“Really?” There’s excitement in her voice and you can’t help but smile along and give her another nod of confirmation. “Okay, well, you know where it is…”

 

“Sure thing. Next weekend?”

 

“Either Saturday or Sunday, I don't know yet. I’ll email you the time and everything, just in case you forget.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

* * *

 

On the way back to the city, she sits next to you and soon falls asleep on your shoulder. You sigh into your seat, trying to remember if you've ever felt this good during the past few months. The universe feels like it’s aligning again, whispering signs for you to be ready and have a second shot at this. You close your eyes and for the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to hope.

 

Maybe this is meant to be, after all.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The funny thing about expectations is that it almost never goes as you think it would.

 

You’d known it in some abstract shape or form and at 26 you thought you have it down pat. But sometimes people forget. _You_ forget. So you went to her apartment on The Barclay with a bouquet of flowers, scenarios raging wild in your mind that it’s almost impossible to extinguish. They all felt uncannily real as you climb the stairs; she’d open the door to great you, thank you for the beautiful flowers, and shower you with her undivided attention as she abandons the other guests.

Only she didn’t, and you falter a little.

 

“Taylor’s a really good songwriter,” she said to the bunch of strangers lounging on the outdoor sofa. It’s an unbelievably humid day and you cannot stop fanning yourself with your hand, beads of perspiration running down your neck and slips into nooks and crannies that would be unreachable without seeming impolite, trickling its way from your hairline to your temples. You squirmed in your seat as one of her friends —Becky — perked up and asked you if she’d heard any of your stuff on the radio before, and you shook your head in a way that makes you feel small, unaccomplished. “They’re mostly stored in my journals.”

 

“She’s a fantastic singer, too.”

 

It felt like revealing an intimate secret without the other one’s consent. Her words were sharp in a way that you never thought possible and you blame yourself for having her in a bad light when all she was trying to do was involve you in the conversation and show the five strangers you’ve never met before that you have more talent than just coming up with cheesy lines written in cards. Yet all it did was remind you of how little you've achieved, the slow realization that maybe you’ve settled for security and routine. What happened to that little girl from Pennsylvania who dreamt of singing on a stage? She was gone before you even had a chance to know her, vanishing with each passing year you decide to stay behind your desk and mull over which font would look better. You take a swig at your beer and politely excused yourself, the lone piece of wall by the edge of the roof had become more and more appealing.

 

_What the fuck am I doing?_

 

At 7.47, you’re ready to leave.

 

At 7.52, you finally spot her standing by the fire exit with a friend. You made two steps in to say goodbye when the reality of the situation finally hit you: both of them talking animatedly while her friend holds her left hand, gushing over a ring.

 

The stairs feels like it runs on an endless loop and the sound your flats make as it slams against the tile floor rings through the entire hallway. Your hands grip and slide on the handrails — knuckles white and skin grating against the polished wood as you make your way down. You’re not sure if you’re breathing too fast or not at all; all you know is you’re suffocating. You make a dash into the street as soon as the gates slam open, air coming into your lungs for what seems like the first time in a while. It was dark and quiet, and you let the night swallow you whole.

 

* * *

 

Once you start ripping up the old wallpaper, it’s hard to stop.

 

Austin came over with Chinese Food and 2 tubes of chocolate ice cream after you ignored his texts and didn’t come in for work for three days. By then, your bedroom wall are half-covered in chalkboard latex.

 

“Shit. You going emo?”

 

A huff escapes between your lips before you shove another spoonful of ice cream into your mouth.

 

“What the hell happened?”

 

You steady yourself, determined not to give him an answer. His tropical blue eyes locks with yours and you stand your ground, daring him to look away and wave the question off. Instead, he sets his takeout box by the counter, eyes set on you the whole time.

 

“She’s engaged.”

 

The words flew out fast and so matter-or-factly that you surprised yourself. You half-expected it to leave you heaving for oxygen again, but what you have now is numbness and nothing else. Across from you, his shoulders slump, the inquisitive gaze on his eyes thoroughly replaced with sympathy.

 

“Allie, I’m so sorry.” He only calls you that when it’s serious. “That sucks.”

 

You don’t tell him about what happened during the wedding though you suspect people at work must have told him a version of it. He likes Karlie, a fact well established by his repeated declaration of how cool and easygoing she is throughout your entire time with her. For some reason you feel the need to protect him just as much as you need to protect yourself by not recounting the whole thing. The weak smile tugging at your lips shows your gratitude for his presence, and you move in for a hug. His arms envelops you on your shoulder before pulling you in, cradling you like you’re made of porcelain. The glass wall that you’ve carefully built finally cracks, and you spend the entire night with your face buried on his neck and tears streaming down your face.

 

* * *

 

The words crawl out of your fingertips like vines and you can’t write them down fast enough. It’s spilled on the blank space on your bedroom wall, between the thick pages of your journals, on empty tissue paper and coffee cups, in the palm of your hand, everywhere you can jot them down. You quit your job, rented out a studio space, recorded a demo, and mailed them out with Austin’s help. Within the next week, you’ve gotten more rejection letters than you’re willing to admit.

 

On Wednesday he FaceTimed you and showed you an invitation for a meeting from a small indie record startup. The tears in your eyes didn’t come with agony like it usually does, and this time your heart still feels intact; growing, even.

 

* * *

 

You sign your contract on a cool, crisp Los Angeles autumn day. They assigned you a manager - Bob - who seems like a sensible man willing to take you under his wing and show you the ropes. He tells you the recording session will begin in June, and the anticipation is enough to make your skin tingle every time you replay the conversation in your head.

 

**_It’s official!_ **

 

_1) i’m so proud of you_

_2) wanna get shit-faced drunk to celebrate_

 

**_You know it_ **

 

* * *

 

The bench on Angelus Plaza stands unaccompanied like you’ve seen so many times before and you realize how long it's been since your last visit. It’s tinged with the memory of the first time you showed her your favorite place, playing her a song with your trusty old ukulele as she folds her knees against her chest and enjoys the scenery.

 

Your lunch goes largely untouched the past 30 minutes you’ve been here. It’s always been secluded and quiet, though today for some reason even more than usual. Your hand itches for a pen and paper but you push the thought away and lean forward instead, resting your elbows on your knees, eyes closed as you take the moment in.

 

“Hey, Taylor.”

 

There's a part of you that thinks your imagination has done and play tricks on you. You turn around anyway, and there she was.

 

* * *

 

She’s sitting on one of the benches near the trees — overcoat and red shirt, a briefcase on her lap. The glint in her eyes trickles down and transforms into a smile, warm but slightly hesitant. “I thought I might see you here.”

 

Her name escapes your lips before you could even stop yourself. “Karlie.”

 

You notice her hair has grown longer, her cheekbones more defined, the laugh lines around her eyes slightly more visible than you remember — a new version of someone you once knew. The quiet hum of ache you feel in your chest is becoming increasingly palpable with every passing second, and you would give practically everything to brush off the strand of hair that’s on her cheek right now.

 

“I’ve always loved this place ever since you brought me here.”

 

You find it comforting in knowing that at least you made an impact on her, even though it's as common as a public space, it's a piece of you that she decides to keep.

 

“So I guess congratulations are in order.”

 

She pauses, her fingers picking at the lose bark on the tree. “Only if you mean it.”

 

“Well, in that case —” In another life, or another version of reality, you’d be a bigger person who’s capable of being decent and offer sincere congratulations. Only this isn’t another realm of reality. This is the reality you’ve got, and no, you’re not there yet. You don’t know if you’ll ever be.

 

Her chuckle is an understanding one, and you can’t help but think that what you’ve just done essentially made you out to be the biggest jerk on earth. She takes a seat next to you; silent as she enjoys the sights and sounds — the distant chirp of birds and wails of ambulance sirens, the rustling sound of leaves. You’re not quite sure what to make of this situation, of seeing her again after that night at the party, of having here and share this quietness with you, yet you drink the sight of her in like a newfound oasis. Still, even after all this time. Even after everything.

 

“You should’ve told me.”

Your words are laced with hurt that it carved another gash in the hollow of your chest. “When we were at the party, you should’ve told me.”

 

“I know. But he hadn’t asked me yet.”

 

The temptation to find out the guy’s name is almost too much to bear, but you push it away and you’re thankful for still being able to possess a sensible thought.

 

“At Millie's, were you already…”

 

“Mm-hmm.”

 

“Then why’d you dance with me?”

 

“'Cause I wanted to.”

 

You scoff at her seemingly innocent answer and for the first time ever you begin to see how maybe this had been just a game for her after all. “You just do what you want, don’t you?”

 

She averts her gaze to the black briefcase sitting on her lap, fiddling with the flap instead of giving you an answer.

 

“You never wanted to be anybody’s girlfriend and now you’re someone’s wife. I don’t get it.”

 

“It just happened. I just woke up one day and I knew.”

 

“Knew what?”

 

She's wavering that thin line between the telling you or keeping what she wants to say to herself and gives you one last look as if asking if you really want to hear what she has to say. For a moment, her uncertainty gives you pause. Then:

 

“What I was never sure of with you.”

 

One night at a bar, a fight broke and somehow you got punched in the face and dislocated your nose. You paid a visit to the ER, had the doctor click it back into place, swearing during the entire car ride home that it was the most painful thing you’ve ever felt.

 

This was worse.

 

It stings your eyes and boils the blood under your skin, gut punches you and cut you open. It rips your heart out again and you don't know how much more of it you can take. You turn your gaze away, fingers curling tightly on the bench handle as you fight back the tears with every fiber of your being.

 

She was your whole life and you were never sure of anything until she came along. When it broke, it shattered, and god knows how long it’s taken you to get here; to actually be in a good place and be at peace with the fact that even though it didn’t last, the moments are cherished. How can someone who means so much to you have almost the exact opposite feeling about yourself? How did you not see it this whole time? Were you that blind, that clueless, that _stupid_?

 

 _Fuck her fuck her_ ** _fuck her_**. The words repeat over and over like a broken record, though deep down you know it’s directed towards yourself rather than the other person.

 

Her hand is on top of yours now and the cool metal band sears against your skin.

“Are you gonna be okay?”

 

It feels like forever, but you finally dare yourself to look at her again. “Yeah. Eventually.”

 

“Taylor…” There’s a hint of concern in her voice, green eyes filled with regret as she gives your hand a light squeeze. “I’m…”

 

“I have to go.”

 

Grief heaves through your entire body with every heartbeat; rising and falling in the spaces between the seconds, incessantly pricking through every inch of your skin. You know that staying any longer would only deny the inevitable. The realization is bitter in your throat and puts your stomach in knots, but you steel yourself and take in the cool air until your lungs feel like they’re about to burst, determined not to let them win as you stand up and gather your things in one quick swoop. You manage to take a few steps before turning back, allowing yourself to have one last look at her.

 

“Hey Karlie?”

 

She looks up and gives you a soft, fleeting smile. There’s a soft mascara-stained streak on her cheek and her nose is as every bit as red as her shirt. It takes everything in you to remind yourself that it’s none of your concern anymore. If it were up to you, it wouldn’t be this way — this isn’t how it would end, but life has a habit of not working out the way you imagined it would. You make it a point to remember everything about this moment, a mental snapshot you know you’ll carry with you for a long time.

The words are simple as it forms in your mind and you hope she could sense how much you mean it.

 

“Take care.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know this isn't exactly the regular happy, fluffy vignettes I use to write but the idea came to me and pretty soon I was completely engulfed in it, so here we are. As you can tell, this is inspired by the movie. (I still cannot believe I made myself go through the emotional trench that is watching this movie again to write the story, though that's another discussion for another time). 
> 
> Thank you for the kudos, the bookmarks, the comments you've left on the series. It really means more than you know.


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